


The One Where the Train was Crowded

by LinnetMelody



Category: Merlin (TV) RPF
Genre: Blow Jobs, Hand Jobs, M/M, Public Sex, Train Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-15
Updated: 2011-04-15
Packaged: 2017-10-18 03:01:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/184281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LinnetMelody/pseuds/LinnetMelody
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You think he smells delicious.  Like rainwater and aftershave.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The One Where the Train was Crowded

**Author's Note:**

  * For [randomling](https://archiveofourown.org/users/randomling/gifts).



> This was written as a kind of stream-of-consciousness "drunk sext" for randomling, after a very stressful day. She needed to relax, and I was tipsy enough to ask her what she liked in fic and to try to give it to her. While the characters in the fic are never exactly stated, I chose a fandom I was more comfortable in for tagging purposes. The reader is, of course, encouraged to envision whomever they like in their stead!

[Me: ...nipple play? Voyeurism? restraints?  
R: I don't know what to explain here! crazy teasing. sweaty boys. orgasm denial. boy-on-boy blowjobs. secret handjobs in public places.  
Me: like the train?...]

 

Like, if it's so crowded. The press of bodies just making the air hotter and humid and nearly stinking with the sweat of overworked, tired people.

Like when the turn comes and you can't help but get pushed gently against the body next to you. And they can't protest. Because it's physics and they get it, and you couldn't help it, and they smile a little. Maybe in apology, 'cause they feel you hard and hungry. But maybe -- maybe -- their eyes just flick down a little to see if you're ... reacting.

And you can't help it. It's been a long day and you're tired and you've bitten your tongue one too many times with customers and you ... sorta.... kinda... hump a bit.

And you swear you hear their breath catch.

Now, this is different. Because maybe they didn't know this about themselves. Maybe they don't have someone at home who will just look at them and *want* them and find them all irresistible. And there's no escape, there's nowhere to back up to, there is just the heat and the closeness and they're _right. There._ And it feels so good, to rub. To move, to sway with the gravity of the train, and the push of their own muscles that they -- maybe -- can't help.

There's a little sweat beading down from their hairline, you can see it, can almost smell it, and you want to taste, to touch, but all you can do is grip the line tighter and inhale.

You wonder if they're hard, too.

They could be. God, you hope they are. Because then it would make it _better._ Make it right. That you're not alone, and neither are they, and you both want something you didn't know you wanted and--

And your hips are moving on their own now. The drag, the slide of the cloth against sensitive bits feels so. Damn. Good.

His breathing's picked up.

You're so close to him. You can't tell what he's looking at, now, because his skin takes up your whole field of vision and you can't see his eyes, but you want to. You want to see what he's looking at. What he wants, in return.

The friction is delicious.

There's something about the air, so close and hot. You inhale deeply and free one hand and reach around to the wall.

Brace yourself.

'Cause you know you need this. Need the resistance. Need to cage him, to enclose him tight against you--

He makes a noise, you're sure, and he shifts so that one arm comes free. For a moment you're scared he's going to punch you. But god, it'd be worth it, you think.

Something that feels this good _should_ have a little pain come with. To balance it.

Instead his hand reaches out, and down, and in, and you didn't realize your clothes were that loose, were that accommodating, because his fingers are cool and tight and oooohhhhgod, in just the right places. For a minute, you are sure you stop breathing.

And then he starts to move his hands, his arm muscles bunching, and you inhale against the lights bursting behind your eyes.

...You were right. You needed the wall.

He still hasn't said anything.

You want to, though. You want to pour out how good this feels, how right, how perfect. How you didn't know you wanted what he's giving you so freely. But the woman behind you would hear, and the teenager to the left would turn and look, and you don't want to share. Not right now.

It's enough that it's him, and he gets it, and he's willing to help you get it too. You're not alone, in this. Not today. Today someone else needs the friction, needs the support, needs to be touched and handled and moved and not just by gravity.

He tastes amazing. The sweat musky and tangy and not-quite-pleasant, and he breathes into your ear in a short pant before holding his breath.

You can feel him, hard and tight, and his hands still haven't stopped moving.

You come in a blinding rush. Nothing sweet or slow or languid about it, it's all immediate and _nownownow_ and you hope you didn't shout anything, but you're not sure and you don't want to turn your head to look.

You can feel him swallow, against your cheek, hard, and his fingers are starting to withdraw. Sticky and warm and you bet they are covered in the stink of you, and he ... he didn't mind.

You're not sure how your knees are still supporting you, but you're grateful. So thankful and admiring and you want to help. You want to return the amazing feeling he let you have, let you taste, you want to _help._

He's hard. God, he must be aching.

So you adjust his stance, just slightly. You turn him into you and you still have your arm braced on the train wall, and the rumbles come up your arm and the vibration is aftershocky and throbs in counterpoint to your heart and you want him to feel this too.

Button flies. Handy, you think, no zippers to get caught in anything, and you discover that he's warmer than you anticipated. No pants, he's bare under the denim.

You can't stop grinning, now. Hide it in his throat, your face turned to catch his scent, his hands frozen on you as he concentrates only on your fingers and what...you do... next...

Slick. He's wet with it, absolutely soaked from the dribbles and leaks that have escaped his control, and you waste no time slicking your fingers. Curl them tight, just there under the head, where the sensitive glans meets, and he jerks slightly in your arms.

You don't know what he prefers: slow and strong, or fast and tight, and that's fine. He's not the one who gets to choose, just now.

You're the one controlling the oncoming blitz, the avalanche that is going to hit him -- and hit him, it will -- hard and fast or overwhelming and slow, but all of it at. Your. Fingertips.

The train shifts again, the bodies shuffling and pressing inward, and you're reminded that this won't last forever, you have to choose, and you want to sweep him away. Sweep him up and along and with you and have him clinging at the end, the way you were. The way you are.

Your palm is wet and greased with sweat and precome and you grip him tight and set a punishing pace.

He wasn't expecting this, you think. He jerks and gasps and one hand reaches out to grab your bicep in support. But his breath has picked up yet again and he's twisting into your touch, greedy for it, so hard he's got to be scrunching his brows in pain and you love this. You love it, because he doesn't get to come until you say.

Brutal pace. Up and down, with your thumb sweeping over the tip and spreading the joy around.

Your tongue traces his sweat and you can feel his heart racing under his skin and you don't give a fuck because your stop is miles away and he's right here and you're not letting him go until you're good and ready.

His hips are hitching up, though you can tell he's trying not to move, and you push him back against the wall. Pin him. Press him into his proper place and don't let him help or hinder either way.

You're sure, by this point, that the teenager beside you has noticed something. You wonder, briefly, if he's gonna go home and jerk himself off to this. To the image of you and him, straining and tight together. Sweaty and sticky and out in full fucking view...

You're nearly ready, now.

His hand has come up to your face, cradling your cheek and you can smell yourself.

Pulling back, you can see his eyes rolling up in his head, the back of his skull thumping once, hard, against the wall of the train, and his whole body trying to fuck your fist.

Yeah, he wants it now. Doesn't care how he gets it, what he's got to do, he's burning with it and it's you who gets to give it to him. So you do what you must.

You take your hand off.

His eyes shoot open, desperation and denial in his gaze as he pants in your face and makes a sound in the back of his throat.

He hasn't noticed the train's stopped.

You flip his shirt down, barely covering his open fly, and shove him sideways down the aisle to the door.

Right before you shove him out, hard on his heels, you look back and into the eyes of the teenager, whose mouth is open in a lust-glazed 'O' and his shoulders are hunched in embarrassment of the erection _you_ gave him. The rush is heady, powerful, and you know your grin is a mile-wide of smug.

On the platform, you don't waste time. You have no idea what stop this is, if it's even yours, because it doesn't matter. The only thing in your head is the thundering of your pulse and the thought of his imminent ecstasy.

You have to pull him -- he's stumbling -- and you duck around the buildings and along the walkway and it's slightly misty and overcast but all you see is his mouth.

Hard into a corner, you back yourself and he's got his shoulders to the world and it's like you're walled off from everything for just a second and there's just the concrete and you and his hot breath, and you finally let your knees weaken like they've wanted to for ages and drop you to the ground.

It's a moment's work to move his shirt tails again, and god, his scent. He smells delicious and heady and you don't want to swallow your spit just yet, 'cause you know you're gonna fucking need it.

Tasting him is barely a moment. Just a split second of his sticky, coated prick on your tongue and then he's so far back in your throat you can't anymore.

You think you hear him -- was that his groan, or yours? -- and your mouth is full and all you can think about his how to angle your head, and covering your teeth, and surely it's not important to breathe, right?

He's got the control, now. You don't have a wall to brace him against to help you decide how you get to take him. Instead, he gets to brace and shove _you_ , and all you can do is take it.

You're not sure your jaw is meant for this. But it's heavenly. Hot and close and the shirt tails are in your hair and you think anyone who sees him will know what he's doing, there's no way you can hide a full-body thrust like he's doing, but ohhhhhhgod this is perfect and right and he's racing after his release with everything in him.

You try to hum, to make it good for him, to vocalize how this is amazing and perfect and that you _want_ this just as bad as he does, only there's no breath for it, so you grip his hip in one hand and cup his balls in the other and that's it.

He's coming. Right down your throat.

You might choke a little, you're hazy at this point, and you might make a mess, but it's pointless, because this whole thing was messy and unplanned and just what you needed in the first place.

For a minute, while you catch your breath and lick your lips and blink the water from your eyes, you wonder what comes next.

What will you say? Thank you?

Come with me?

Your name?

But his eyes are shining and he's smiling just a bit and there's a gentle hand cradling the back of your skull -- he didn't want to fuck you into the cement, oh, he's nice -- and you realize it doesn't matter. You're both speechless. You're both slain. And you both want to do it again.

....as soon as you can walk.


End file.
